


come with me

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, dæmon AU, oneshots, unrelated to each other!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: A collection of Kaneki/Touka and Haise/Touka oneshots cleaned up from my Tumblr~~ Explicit chapters are marked as such. Includes:* TG/dæmon au* Haise brings the handkerchief back, and Touka keeps it for — her own purposes





	1. order (TG/dæmon au)

Haise has never heard his dæmon speak, though he’s sure that she must have, once, maybe, before. And at least in the beginning he would whisper to her often, hopefully, when no one was around to hear her never reply.

“’Haise’…” He said it after Arima folded up the newspaper and left. “I like it. What do you think? And…what do you think of your name?”

It was the first time he spoke to her since they arrived in Cochlea, and it was the first time she looked him in the eyes, and then looked away.

:::

No one at the CCG remarks on her silence, which he appreciates, for its subtle kindness. At the office she scurries from beneath desk to desk, at first, seeking shelter in the shadows; but eventually she comes to rest on his shoulder, where she communicates her small desires and opinions through chin nuzzles and, only rarely, under duress, a claw against his ear.

They recover, well. When Arima tells them they will be assigned the Qs, Haise looks down at her, unable to hold back his smile. In response, her eyes shine, happily, and he pats her head, and smiles at her, and squeezes.

:::

She fidgets for the entire day before their introduction to the Qs, she almost starts to pull out her hairs again, but it goes well, especially for her; their dæmons all touch noses in turn and Haise notes, with pride, that his dæmon warms visibly, exuding calm and confidence. The months pass, much more smoothly than he knows either of them expected, and much more cheerfully as well.

“It’s better than I hoped,” he whispers to her, one night. “It’s what I always wanted.”

Far from simply training and missions, the Qs — well, at least some of them, right now — come along with him to excursions to bookstores and cafes, and seem to enjoy it. Mutsuki smiles whenever the coat of Haise’s dæmon shivers and smooths when Haise tries a new type of roast. One day they don’t even intend it, they simply finish their errands early and Haise sighs with relaxation and in the air is a slight whiff of coffee that he follows all the way to a storefront he’s never seen before. The bell rings, and he hardly hears it over all their laughter, neither of them notice anything, really, until — until —

“O-oh,” Haise says. Belatedly, he realizes some time has passed, everyone is looking at him with expectance and then concern, and his vision is blurry, he’s…crying. The barista is holding out a handkerchief, brows furrowed, and he takes it, and then apologizes for taking it, and she laughs a little, beautifully, and then smiles at him, beautifully.

“What would you like today?” she asks.

Haise opens his mouth. Nothing emerges. Then, finally:

“O-one…coffee. Please.”

Haise looks down in shock. His dæmon, trembling on his shoulder, meets the barista’s gaze firmly. Her voice came out like a croak, but the barista smiles at her next, and her fur floofs.

“Black?” the barista asks.

“…yes,” Haise’s dæmon murmurs.

“Of course.” She doesn’t write it down. She walks away, and both of them watch her go.

:::

(Later — when the barista comes back out without mugs — Haise’s eyes flit between her and the cafe bookshelves. He is shy, and painfully desperate to swallow every line of her. The barista doesn’t spare him any particular glance. But he is too busy to notice her dæmon, a white rabbit with red eyes, watching him from the cafe counter.)

:::

(And so, all of them are far too busy to notice something else: Mutsuki’s dæmon, who leaps to the top of the shelves, and fixes the barista with a stare like a knife.)


	2. handkerchief (Explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haise returns the handkerchief, and Touka keeps it for — her own purposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're having a good day!

He brings the handkerchief back, of course.

What she doesn’t expect is that he does it alone. The bell on :re’s door rings and he scans around inside until his eyes settle on her behind the counter; then his gaze drops, shyly. He approaches and tells her his order with his hand in his pocket and afterward he says, too quickly, “A-and I brought this back for you, I mean, I don’t know if you remember me, but, thank you very much.”

He withdraws the handkerchief and holds it out with two hands and a nervous smile.

“I remember you,” Touka tells him. Not completely, as it turns out. His hands seem a lot larger than they are in her memory, and they’re warmer too, which she discovers when she allows her own hands to brush him shamelessly as she takes the handkerchief back. He also seems taller now (though perhaps it’s just because he stands a little straighter?). He removes his coat before he sits and by the way the clothing rests on him she can tell his body is more trim and muscled than she remembers, from that last time, when they were on the bridge, and he refused to look at her.

Speaking of which. Here is another thing, both different, and the same: as she makes his drink she feels his eyes on her — peering over his book, peering over the coffee machines. They dart back to the pages when she glances toward him, but his slightly flushed face means she wasn’t just imagining it. She shocks herself with how well she understands what he’s doing — but really, isn’t this the most familiar thing of all? This is how she first knew him: a shy man, gazing. at the time, it had been at Rize.

And now. It’s at  _her_.

Now that she is the recipient, her nape itches. She adjusts her hair, adjusts her apron, adjusts her blouse. The handkerchief is burning in her pocket. Kaneki never acted this way toward her and she finds herself desperate for him to leave, but not because the way he traces her is…uncomfortable. Per se. Yomo probably thinks he’s doing her some kind of dumb favor by leaving her alone with him and he re-emerges when :re’s bell rings, this time signifying an exit. Yomo’s mouth opens and she can tell he is about to ask her something but she asks him, instead, first: “Can you watch the store for a bit?”

His mouth shuts, and then opens again. “Sure,” he says, and Touka rushes off, and up the stairs, to her room. She opens the door, and shuts it, and locks it. Only then does she take the handkerchief out. Then, before she can stop herself, she puts it to her face, and inhales.

_ Kaneki. _

Of course it’s him, but still, until this moment…

_ It’s him, it’s him, it’s him. _

This is the one thing she couldn’t summon to herself at night, the one memory she couldn’t truly hold, yet another precious thing she lost when Anteiku burned down. She was the one to clean his locker out and she threw away everything but his uniform, which she folded inside her own locker and took out only on the days she closed up on her own. She’d never noticed his warm smell before until then, when it was gone. By herself, she pressed it to her face, held it to herself so closely that she would murder anyone who saw her. Eventually, she would fold it away warm.

His name and hair and build and hands might change, but —

_ It’s him. _

The hair is weird, but it isn’t…bad. She inhales again, and feels something static down her spine. _It’s him._  She makes her way to her bed before she knows it, still wearing the apron, fitting her down down the hill of her hastily unbuttoned skirt. Her other hand still holds the handkerchief to her face, and she takes another indulgent breath, and follows her mind as it races to thoughts of his long fingers playing with the tie of her apron, slipping softly beneath her shirt, alighting her hips. His thumbs could rub her belly before sliding lower, forming a cup around her, rubbing gently before (her own hand moves) one finger slips in between, and…

Her sigh is full of him. Her hips raise, a bit — she tugs and knees a pillow into place beneath her to brace herself — she straddles it, grinds it into the mattress earnestly. Other thoughts glitter into place as her finger gently flutters into her, in time with the butterflies in her stomach, and just as erratically. If he’s still a virgin now, she could make the first move, she could kiss him unexpectedly and then drag him to one of their safehouses, where she stored a blanket with the very quiet fantasy of one day pulling it out and fucking him right there on the bare floor. She could rub his lower back, the spot she’s certain he hasn’t found yet and is so hard for ghouls to satisfy on their own. She could press her face into his chest, all that brand-new dove muscle, and probably it would smell just like this. She could — kiss him, again and again — crook a leg around his bare waist — shudder when he gripped her upper back just so — spread her legs wider, wider, wetter, and ask him to do it harder, rougher, and finally, set her mouth to his shoulder, and open, and  _bite_ —

Everything comes at once then. She shoves her face into the handkerchief, into the bed, shoves her shirt up and grips one breast and pumps her fingers in and out until she finishes, unable to stop herself from making one high and smothered moan.

Afterward, she slumps down. She’s breathing harder than she ever has; her hand is wet down to her palm and she extricates it, careful not to trail on the black skirt. It takes just a moment to compose herself (wiping her hand on an old shirt, re-arranging her mussed hair, re-buttoning and straightening her clothes). There’s a little bit of saliva on the handkerchief, and she grimaces, embarrassed and also irritated. Hopefully that won’t mess up the smell for later.

“Thanks,” she tells Yomo when she comes back down. He nods at her. He pauses.

“Did anything happen?” he asks. “With…him.”

_Did he remember_ , Yomo means. Touka moves to the sink, and starts washing her hands. She puts too much effort in it, probably. She works the lather underneath all her nails, scrubs almost up to her wrists.

“No,” Touka answers, finally. “He didn’t.”


End file.
